Читать книгу Journey's End - Bj James - Страница 11

Three

He’d been snookered. Hoodwinked. Hustled and had.

Led down the garden path would be putting it mildly.

He knew it when he looked over the back of the horse he was saddling and found her watching him from the corral fence. Her jeans were the same, and the shirt. The jacket was of a matching denim. Not as faded, but enough that he knew it was a working jacket, not purely the decorative complement of a tenderfoot’s idea of ranch wear.

Sensible, practical, but the real giveaway was her boots. Or rather not boots. She wore moccasins, wrapped and laced, and tied at the knee. The same footwear favored by some of the Indians who worked with him as guides and wranglers through the short tourist season. Not as an affectation, nor for show, but comfortable, practical footwear for the skilled and intuitive nder.

His arms folded across the saddle, his hat tilted back a notch, he studied her from the Stetson that was far from new, to moccasins that were at least as old. A wry smile crinkled in fanning lines about his eyes. A flip of his finger moved the hat brim back another notch. “Sedate, huh?”

Merrill only nodded. The sun was at her shoulder, its muted fire casting provocative shadows beneath her cheekbones and turning her skin luminous. She’d taken a minute to braid her hair. But a minute was never enough to completely tame her curling mane. Tendrils escaped and drifted like mists about her face.

Ty wondered what it would be like to paint, to be able to capture on canvas the time, the place, this woman, forever.

The horse, a small, pretty mare, stamped a hoof and flicked an ear signaling an eagerness to be away. “Ho, girl.” Ty tapped her neck and stroked her, but kept his gaze on Merrill. A gaze that swept over her again, taking in every detail, the gear, the posture, the lithe, agile body. The mischief he couldn’t see, but knew was lurking there. He hoped was lurking there.

“You know one end of a horse from another, do you?” he asked soberly, picking up the threads of the conversation they’d had in the kitchen as if it had never been interrupted.

“The tall end is the front.” The reply was given just as soberly, without a ripple of change in her expression.

“And which side to mount from?” He continued the unnecessary catechism.

“Your side, if you’re a cowboy.”

“And if you’re not a cowboy or a cowgirl?”

“My side.” Merrill stayed by the fence. Her expression never altering.

“Indian fashion?”

“My first riding lesson was in Argentina.” A comment that might have been apropos of nothing, a digression, per chance a convoluted diversion. But not when it came from Merrill.

As she paused, his head angled and a brow lofted as he tried to make the connection. “Argentina.”